The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “That is a poor position for a warmage to find himself in,” chuckled the Merwini, who had taken the notice with comical graciousness. “Your people are good archers. Not great, but very good,” he said, which was high praise. “But you, Magelord, you bathe those around you in opportunity . . . yet have you done much magic yourself?”

  The question startled me for a moment. I looked around at the gleaming white castle, washed cleaned of the summer dust and soot by yesterday’s rainstorm. “Excepting for transforming an entire mountain and castle into a unique magic substance? No, not really,” I replied, mildly.

  That got a laugh from everyone. I had shared the unique circumstances of my son’s birth with every thaumaturge I knew, just to figure out how it happened. “And I say that in all seriousness. I have done very little magic, myself. I have depended upon others to work the wonders, but that has been to my benefit.”

  “Leave him alone Sarakeem,” Planus reproved the Merwini mage, “I’ve seen how much paperwork my cousin does. If Minalan does a tithe of it, he probably has more important matters to concern him than research.”

  “While I love pure research,” I agreed, “and hate paperwork with a growing passion, it appears that I’ll not have much time for either, in the near future. If the gurvani continue their advance toward Barrowbell, I will likely be recalled to the field.” There. I said it. I had been ignoring the possibility for far too long, but the recent conquest of West Fleria had not only reminded me that there was a war on, it had removed my greatest obstacle to attending it.

  “Alya is not going to like that,” Pentandra observed, quietly. She and my wife had grown steadily closer, which unnerved me greatly. While I was less anxious of a sudden fight breaking out, the idea that the two women closest to me in my life were . . . conspiring against me was a new type of anxiety.

  “She’s not the only one,” I nodded, grimly. “Battle is the last place I want to go right now, but it may be necessary. She may not like it, but she’ll have to live with it.”

  “I understand the lady’s trepidation. The last time you left her alone here, Minalan, she got besieged,” Planus pointed out.

  “That is bound to make any new mother nervous,” observed Sarakeem sagely.

  “It’s not like it was her first siege,” I pointed out. “Sevendor’s defenses worked as we designed them, save for the treachery of a weak man. With that problem solved, and no local enemies to contend with, I don’t see what the problem would be. Except the possibility of me not returning,” I conceded, guiltily.

  “She will survive,” Pentandra said, diplomatically. “I think Rard would be a fool to risk someone as important as you on the battlefield, but I don’t wear the shiny hat. But I do hope you can wait until after the Magic Fair before you deploy yourself. It would be a shame if all of Banamor’s good work wasn’t appreciated by his master.”

  “That will be up to the gurvani, I’m afraid,” I shrugged. “They rarely let me know what they’re planning.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  An Embassy From The Alka Alon

  A week after I had conquered a rump barony, things were slowly getting back to normal.

  Penny had already started sneering at my castle. She was likewise unimpressed with Sevendor, as a whole. Her family’s estates dwarfed even Greater Sevendor (as the extent of my domain was now being called), and her new manor Fairoaks, in the capital, was far more grand and luxurious, her servants more polished and better trained, and – let’s face it – it just smelled better.

  Mavone was less rude about it – Sevendor was just another castle, after all, and he’d seen his share. He moved on back to Wenshar as soon as he could arrange passage, thanking me for a refreshing diversion. I suppose conquering a half-dozen domains for a friend on his vacation counts as fun, for a man like Mavone. He did promise to return for the Magic Fair, on his way back to the front, however. Personally, I think he liked Sevendor.

  Sarakeem and Planus stayed longer. Sarakeem enjoyed being under the eye of the Spellmonger, and went out of his way to ingratiate himself to me by holding regular classes at the butts for my people, teaching them the finer points of the archer’s craft. I didn’t mind. The shot that wounded Ganulan proved that the man knew his business.

  Planus asked permission to stay through the approaching Magical Fair, and I could hardly refuse him. He put up with the “rugged” rustic castle living with more grace than his cousin, and both of them were fascinated by the ‘feel’ of magic in the presence of so much snowstone.

  “Its amazing stuff, Min,” Penny told me one morning, remarking about the feeling she awoke with after she’d slept in Sevendor Castle. “To be surrounded in it is like being surrounded by magic just begging to be manifested! No wonder the Tree Folk want some! The samples you sent me were impressive, but . . .” she shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone with Talent not thriving here. This would be an ideal place for a magical school!” she proposed.

  “Something like that,” I agreed. We were standing in my laboratory, the first time I had been able to ditch politics for awhile and focus on magic. “I have plans to excavate the mountain and build a far larger fortress. Large enough for an Academy of sorts.”

  “A fortress? You just got rid of your worst enemy,” she said, confused. “Why do you need a bigger castle?”

  “Because I haven’t defeated my worst enemy. He’s still out there, with a horde of a million goblins, and he’s not going to go away on his own. Sevendor Castle was a decent defense against other local lords. The new Sevendor Castle should be able to withstand a siege of hundreds of thousands of goblins.”

  “That will take years!” she complained. “And to waste snowstone on it seems . . . lavish,” she said, diplomatically.

  “I hope I have years,” I replied. “You see how fast things are moving in Gilmora. They haven’t even gotten their invasion organized, and we’re already half-beaten. It will take tremendous effort to keep them back, and still more to throw them out of Gilmora. We’re going to slow the gurvani down, but they won’t be defeated easily. Nor will they hesitate to attack me wherever I am. So building a whopping big castle might seem like a waste, but I see it as insurance against the inevitable future bad times.”

  “You’re the Spellmonger,” she shrugged. She was saying that more and more when we disagreed . . . but only when she didn’t see it as an important enough point to argue about. “I suppose I should stay for the Magical Fair, too, since missing it would be a social disaster.”

  “I’m planning a ball . . . sort of,” I said. “Nothing fancy, but a celebration of the Champion is in order.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good to know, since I have nothing to wear,” she said in defiance of the large baggage train she had arrived with. “But I’m speaking of the Spellmonger’s first social event of the new kingdom. I can’t miss that. Nor can I miss the fair itself – I have an extensive shopping list, and I’m hoping I can find some things your man Banamor has told me will be there.”

  “He’s the one to know,” I agreed. Banamor had taken his duties as Spellwarden seriously, and had worked on the fair right through the siege. I had left the details almost entirely to him, and he was accomplishing a lot toward a successful event. “But that also means you’ll be here for Sir Cei’s wedding next week,” I pointed out. “Right at the end of harvest.”

  “Oh, goddess spare me from an overabundance of enthusiasm,” she said, ruefully. She had yet to forgive Sir Cei for imprisoning her in a dungeon during the Siege of Boval Castle, and had nearly objected when I wanted to hire him as castellan. “You remember him at your wedding? The man seems far too dour to get married.”

  “You’ll be surprised how much Sir Cei has changed, once he got the taste of honey on his lips,” I assured her. “He’s due back from his estate today or tomorrow.” He had wanted to ride to see to his lady’s safety as soon as he was able, and I’d granted him a few days’ leave after he helped get my new vassals orga
nized.

  “He still worked for Koucey, I wouldn’t hire the man to clean my chamberpot!”

  “Luckily, you don’t have to. And I think you’ll like his wife.”

  If Penny was discouraging about the impending nuptials, Alya was in a tizzy. She had been pregnant and in exile before our wedding in Talry, and as much as my parents had tried to make her feel at home she had missed the planning all women seem to have about their maidenmoon.

  While Lady Estret was far from a maiden, Alya saw this as an important alliance and wanted to celebrate it appropriately. She said as much that evening as we crawled into bed together. The late summer night was warm, but my snowstone castle reflected a lot of the heat away, and a helpful mountain breeze through the open window kept it from being unbearable.

  “We can’t have Baron Arathanial arrive for a peasant’s wedding!” she had declared as she tugged on her thin cotton nightgown. She had lost a lot of her curves since Minalyan was born, save where they enticed me the most. It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying with two big distractions compelling my eye.

  “Pay attention! Olmeg says he can get some late-blooming flowers for the altar, but the wine Banamor chose is abysmal! Sire Cei deserves more than that! Sevendor deserves more than that! We have our reputation to uphold, and I will not let ill be said of our hospitality. This is the first function we’ve hosted, and there are many eyes on how successful it is.”

  “We kept the guest list small on purpose,” I reminded her. “Just Estret’s family, Baron Arathanial’s retinue – he’s Cei’s liege, he has to be there -- Sire Sigalan’s party, we can’t exclude him, we just conquered half a barony together – the priestesses, Landbrother Mison and the Yeomanry.”

  “And at least a thousand Bovali,” she reminded me, “all of whom see this as much a celebration of our liberation as a wedding. All of your new subject lords, who will be lining up to kiss your arse.”

  “They should. I just conquered them. And since everyone is here, I’ll have to name a new vassal to that vacant fief, Northwood.” Sire Vrey of Northwood had been a crony of Gimbal’s, and had refused to swear fealty to me, joining his embittered former liege in exile in East Fleria. That was just as well, as he was so hated among his people that I probably would have had to remove him from his fief anyway.

  As it was, Northwood was going to need some assistance and some wise guidance to prosper again. A generation of penurious taxation and rampant corruption had left the people as bitter as the original Sevendori had been.

  “Who have you decided to name?” she asked, carefully. She was still very wary of my prerogatives as magelord, and did not want to seem as if she was unduly influence me.

  “Why, who would you see in the post?”

  “Whomever my lord decides,” she said, sweetly.

  “Well, there are some worthy candidates,” I admitted. “I considered making it a wedding gift it to Sire Cei, but in truth I want his attention on my estate, and his lady’s, and I foresee he will be too busy to give Northwood the time and attention it needs. I could raise a Yeoman, but that might be premature. I considered giving it to Sir Forondo, but the man has a mercenary’s eye when it comes to management. He could own an estate, but I wouldn’t hire him to manage one. He’s a good enough soldier, but he’d run Northwood into the ground and have a peasant’s revolt on his hands.”

  “So who do you favor, Magelord?” she asked, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly and wiggling under the thin blanket.

  “I think I’m going to give it to Sir Roncil,” I decided.

  “Very good choice,” she said at once. “He’s loyal, he looks to you as fondly as any of the peasantry for saving us at Boval, he’s a knight with some steel to him, and he’s been more or less running Brestal on Cei’s behalf. And running it well,” she added. “I approve.”

  “Listen to you,” I had chuckled, “you sound like you’ve been a noble for years. Remember when we rode through that gap for the first time last winter? Not even a year has passed, and you have grown so comfortable with your role you’re worried about the quality of wine at your castellan’s wedding.” I couldn’t help but kiss her, she’s so adorable when she blushes.

  Of course that led to other things, and soon the night was just much too hot, until we fell asleep sated. That’s why I was confused as I was awoken a few hours later, in the darkest of night, by someone essentially banging on the door of my mind.

  What is it? Who is it? I asked, even as I recognized Pentandra.

  Min, get up, she commanded. You’re needed.

  I tried to recall which crisis I was addressing and where Pentandra was, and then I realized that she was still right here in Sevendor. Penny, what is it? You’re right across the hall, why can’t you just come over and knock?

  I didn’t want to disturb Alya.

  But it’s fine to disturb me. So what is it? I asked, tiredly.

  Look out your window, she instructed me.

  Huh?

  Just . . . look out your window. You’ll see why I wanted you awake.

  If this is just an eclipse or a comet or something, I’m going to be pissed, I promised her as I pulled myself from my wife’s embrace and stumbled over to the window. I rubbed my eyes and peered out into the darkness . . . only it wasn’t quite darkness.

  The moon was absent from the sky, but much of the vale was lightly aglow. The source of the light was coming from the top of Helm’s Mount, over a mile away. It was a magelight, only not the sort that Imperially-trained magi create.

  All magic-using peoples have a variation of the magelight spell, even the nocturnal gurvan, and it’s not an uncommon development of “wild magic” – unschooled Talent. After all, the process is simple: define an area of space, activate the atoms within, and energize the volume until the atoms in the gas are forced to produce light. But the way we go about that – the process and the shape of the spell – is very different. Most human magi do it in Imperial fashion because that’s the way we learned it.

  But I’d seen a magelight like that before. It was the style of light used by the Tree Folk.

  It looks like you have company, Penny said. Get dressed. It would be impolite to meet them with your dong hanging out.

  Why not? They go around naked most of the time.

  They have retractable phalli. You’d just make them jealous, she teased.

  I’ll get dressed, I said, ignoring her comment. If you’re dressed already, then have someone run to the stables and have our mounts prepared. Giving Penny a chance to order someone around would keep her busy – she finds it irresistible. And get the other High Magi up – my lazy apprentices included. Best we give them a proper greeting.

  * * *

  There were nine of us who ended up riding across the vale that night, but we weren’t the only ones awakened by the light. As we passed through Sevendor Village there were several people out in the night’s heat, staring up at the mysterious glow.

  I did my best to calm them, and the sudden appearance of a bunch of wizards was indeed reassuring. If the Spellmonger was aware of it, there was little else they could do, they reasoned, and most returned to bed.

  Banamor was waiting for us in the Village, and nervously asked questions about the light as we rode toward Matten’s Helm.

  He was almost as frightened as the peasantry, as he had never had any dealings with the Tree Folk, and was unaware of their magics. Once I explained that it was merely a magelight, but one made for Alka eyes, not human, explaining the odd color and brightness, he relaxed. After that he was more curious than frightened, but that could have been because he was accompanied by warmagi. Sarakeem had brought his great bow, and seemed excited and enthusiastic about meeting the Tree Folk. Of course Sarakeem is excited and enthusiastic about breakfast, I’d learned.

  It seemed to be his nature.

  Riding across Sevendor during a hot summer’s night was emboldening. My little land was rich and lush, the people well fed and secure, and the
distant magelight was strong enough to reflect off of my snowstone keep and the magnificent white-bottomed pond as I looked back at it. I could smell the fresh-mown hay, the richness of the newly-plowed fields, and could smell wild honeysuckle and husked maize conspiring to overcome, if even for a moment, the usual miasma of wood smoke and animal dung. I realized for the hundredth time or so that I loved this little vale almost as much as I loved Minalyan.

  By the time we arrived at the base of Matten’s Helm, Master Olmeg and Zagor had both arrived before us. Master Olmeg was with two of the River Folk who were aquiver with excitement. I’d seen how the little people reacted when in the presence of the Alka, and it was similar to how a zealot feels about a personal visitation from the deity he worships.

  “Magelord,” my Greenwarden greeted me in his deep voice with a bow. “I believe we are all here for the same purpose.”

  “The Fair Folk,” sighed Zagor, happily. He had been raised in the remote Alka Alon outpost in the north end of Boval Vale when it was discovered he had Talent, and they had taught him bits and pieces of “easy” Tree Folk magic . . . which made him a powerful mage in his own right. They had also given him a witchstone, second in size only to the massive sphere I now possessed.

  I hadn’t bothered to point it out to anyone, and didn’t see a need to, but Zagor was the only acknowledged High Mage who had his stone without taking his oath from me. He was independent of the Order’s discipline. If he was another sort of man, I might have been worried. As it was, I’d trust Zagor with just about anything. “It has been a long time,” he said, simply, and a little sheepishly.

  “That looks like quite a steep climb,” Planus said, concerned at the grade of the path.

  “It is,” I agreed. “We’d best get started.”